


Lucidity

by SittingRoundTheSamovar



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Afterlife, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Arguing, Background Character Death, Background Relationships, Canonical Character Death, Depression, Dysfunctional Family, Fish out of Temporal Water, It gets dark, M/M, Major Spoilers, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Mentions of Suicide, Past Character Death, Relationship Problems, Second Chances, Therapy, no really, very dark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-09
Updated: 2013-05-20
Packaged: 2017-12-07 22:57:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/754048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SittingRoundTheSamovar/pseuds/SittingRoundTheSamovar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Major spoilers for AC3's ending]</p><p>Charles Lee wakes up in an unfamiliar place, in familiar company. He tries not to think too hard about the fact the calendar says it's 2013, or that people he knows to be dead are, for some reason, alive and well. He wonders whether this is Heaven or Hell, he's never been a great believer in an afterlife.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Since this is quite possibly the only not-for-someone-else fic I have going right now, this won't be updated at anything like a regular schedule (as if anything I write is, lol).

 

It's over.

 

There's nothing worth fighting for any more. 

 

Johnson is dead. Pitcairn is dead. Hickey is dead. Church is dead. Master Kenway is dead. Even Spado is dead. It's just him left now. Him against the Assassin Brotherhood. Well, one of them, at any rate. The Assassin's slaughtered his dearest friends and it's all Charles' fault. If he'd only been more patient with the child, realised his relation to Master Kenway, then this could have been prevented. 

 

Charles stares at the bottle in front of him. The Assassin is coming for him, he knows. Even if he wasn't, Charles would still be dying from the untreated wounds inflicted by their chase. He doesn't want to see a doctor. There's no point in living.

 

Charles doesn't look up as the Assassin limps to the table. Instead, he takes a swig of the burning alcohol, tries to dull the pain a little. He slides it to the Assassin, who takes it and drinks. Charles glances up, to meet the man's eyes, and something like sympathy passes between them. Both are too tired to hate any more. Both are too sad for their petty acts of revenge to have any meaning now. Both have lost too much for too little reward, and they need an end.

 

Charles doesn't expect for the cold steel sliding through his heart to give him such a feeling of relief. He'd always thought he'd be afraid when the blood seeped through his waistcoat and the darkness crept into his vision. He isn't. It hurts, certainly, but it is as if a weight is lifted from his back and the faint feeling clouding his mind almost makes this death a pleasurable experience.

 

He slumps forward, his last breath slowly leaving his lungs.

 

* * *

 

Charles opens his eyes, and there are small, red lights in the darkness in front of him. 3.47, they read, and he wonders what they mean and why he's still breathing. He props himself up on one arm, and takes note of his surroundings. He's in a very strange bed, with an unusually comfortable mattress and some sort of stuffed sheet. There is also someone else in the bed, though he can't quite see who they are in this near-darkness. 

 

Perhaps this is some sort of dream, brought on by the blood loss. He doesn't mind that idea, this isn't unpleasant as far as dreams go. But this doesn't feel like a dream. Although, they never do feel like dreams until after awakening, do they?

 

He sits up, and pads to the window, which has dull light seeping past the heavy curtains. He fingers the fabric of the strange, part-sleeved undershirt he seems to be wearing. It's… stretchy. Strange. The trousers he's wearing are simple enough, a drawstring around his hips. He doesn't want to think about why his clothes have changed, so he pulls aside a corner of the curtain instead.

 

He peers outside, and is surprised at how high the building is. If the building across the street is any indication, then this is the fourth floor. He glances down: the dull light is from street lamps. They're brighter than the kind he remembers, and there are at least four on the stretch of road he can see from here-- actually, the road is strange, too. It's not cobblestoned, it looks like some sort of cement-gravel mixture. 

 

He squints, wondering what the metal-and-glass things are on the road. Some sort of carriage? What a strange design. And where would the horses go?

 

"Charles?" a sleepy voice slurs. A very familiar sleepy voice, and Charles swears his heart stops for a moment. 

 

Master Kenway is dead. 

 

Master Kenway is in bed. Possibly Charles' bed.

 

"My apologies," Charles manages, softly, and lets the curtain fall back into place. He doesn't dare turn around. This is a strange dream, indeed. It must be a dream, it can't possibly be real.

 

Master Kenway grunts and it sounds as though he rolls over, and Charles can't muster up the courage to move until the sound of soft snores reverberate through the room. 

 

He lets out a breath he hadn't been aware he was holding, and pads softly around the bed large enough for two (he has to be asleep, he vaguely remembers having had similar dreams before, albeit in more familiar environments). There's two doors: one double set and a single. The double seems to be a wardrobe of some sort, the other leads to a modest hallway. 

 

Charles leaves the bedroom, and shuts the door with a faint click. Everything looks right but wrong. There's a bookshelf and more doors, half of them open, extremely detailed pictures hanging in frames on the walls and strange contraptions lying around everywhere. He picks up a small rectangle, made of silver and some sort of dark glass. There's a small circle on the front, and he presses it. The dark glass brightens, a small box and arrow appearing along with the words 'unlock'. He puts it down carefully.

 

He peers at the pictures on the walls. He can see very little, but they're obviously very high-quality craftsmanship. He can't see any paint strokes, and the details his eyes can make out in the dark are frighteningly perfect. This one is of himself and Master Kenway, wearing strangely simplistic suits, smiling at the artist. 

 

One of the doors leads to a tiled room, with shiny glass and metal and polished stone. Charles doesn't go in there, mostly because he's never seen a room like it, and he's got no idea what most of the objects in that room are for. He's seen water-taps before, in government buildings back in Britain, but there are far too many in that room for his liking. It makes him feel nervous. 

 

 Charles comes to a parlour, though the furniture is rather under-decorated. There's a flat black rectangle on one wall, and the windows in this room don't have their windows drawn. He wonders how the glass was cast so large and so smooth. Surely that's not possible?

 

He glances around, at the odd couches and the mysterious devices left on random surfaces, and at the tiny dog sleeping on a small, shaped cushion in the corner of the room. This place is strange. Really strange. He's not sure he likes it. 

 

One of the windows turns out to really be a door, leading to a balcony. He opens it without much difficulty, the key still being in the lock, and is surprised at how cold the stone feels beneath his bare feet. He doesn't usually feel the cold in his dreams. Though there's a small metal-and-glass table with three chairs around it, he opts to sit on the floor, back against the window.

 

The sky is dark, though there's a brighter patch to the left. Dawn must nearly be breaking. Charles doesn't know whether to be relieved or not; while he'd been happy to die at the hands of Master Kenway's son, he'd wanted more to live, though not in a world where Hickey and the others were dead because of his mistakes. 

 

The air is chilly, and he can feel goosebumps on his skin. He shivers. He doesn't remember ever having felt cold in his dreams, like he doesn't remember ever having felt heat or pain in them. 

 

"Charles? What are you doing outside?" Master Kenway's sleep-roughened voice asks, from the still-open door. Charles must have forgotten to close it.

 

"I…" Charles begins, not knowing quite what to say. "I just… I needed to think."

 

"At four in the morning?" Master Kenway sounds worried. "In the freezing cold? It might be spring, Charles, but it's still New York."

 

"Sorry, sir," Charles mutters. This was apparently the wrong thing to say, as Master Kenway went silent. "I'll be back to bed shortly. I just need to sort myself out."

 

"Do you want me to call Lucy?" Master Kenway asks, carefully. 

 

Call? Surely he meant 'call for' or 'send for'? 

 

"Lucy?" Charles asks, rubbing his eyes. He'd never known a Lucy.

 

"Lucy Stillman?" Master Kenway presses. "Your therapist?"

 

Charles shakes his head and rubs his eyes tiredly. This dream is fast losing its novelty. He wants to wake up, and have the peace the Assassin was supposed to deliver.

 

Master Kenway sighs. He reaches down and takes hold of one of Charles' wrists. 

 

"I'll make us some tea and we'll get sorted out," he promises. Charles nods. It will be nice to drink tea with Master Kenway one last time, even if it is simply a hallucination.

He tries very hard not to notice how anxious Master Kenway looks, with a pale face and lips pressed tightly together.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoops, forgot to tick the multiple chapters box last time 
> 
> I ought to point out that while I did study psychology for two years at college... I hardly studied mental illness. It was mostly cognition and conditioning. I did however learn a few things about how severe psychotic disorders are dealt with. Sectioning actually happens surprisingly rarely, even with delusional illnesses. (or at least in the uk that's how it is)
> 
> If I've gotten some information horrifically wrong, both now and in future, please tell me so i can rewrite and correct my mistakes.

 

Master Kenway firmly pulls Charles to his feet, and even with his hair cut short, wearing naught but a creased shirt and small clothes, he still has an air of command about him and he's still just as handsome as he was when he was alive. Charles follows him inside, and the pomeranian he saw earlier- which looks suspiciously like Spado- sprints at him, yapping happily. 

 

Charles lets the ghost of a smile slip onto his lips. Spado always did hate the cold. He must've been the reason Master Kenway woke up. 

 

"Spado woke me up," Master Kenway murmurs, just as Charles reaches that conclusion. 

 

He guides them to a couch and presses on Charles' shoulder to indicate he ought to sit. Charles does, and is surprised at how comfortable it is. Master Kenway crouches in front of him a moment, looking serious, and makes eye contact. Whatever he's about to say is important.

 

"Charles, I want you to sit here while I make the tea. Please don't touch anything. If you need something, or you have to move for any reason, shout to me. I'll just be in the kitchen." Master Kenway gestures to a room adjacent to this one, connected by a doorway large enough for a set of double doors. Curiously, there don't seem to be any doors attached. Perhaps they're broken?

 

He nods, and Master Kenway looks relieved as he stands and strides away. Spado scrambles up onto the couch, and Charles pets him. He'd missed the dog terribly- Spado had died just when everything really went to hell, not long after Hickey had been assassinated. He does not like to remember the long, lonely nights spent contemplating his mortality.

 

There's a clicking sound, and the room brightens. Charles looks for the source of the light- there's some sort of tiny, covered chandelier or lamp hanging from the ceiling. He knows they've been experimenting in Britain with gas lighting, but he's never seen it for himself. How terribly clever!

 

The sounds of cupboard doors opening and china clinking from the kitchen is soothing, and Charles decides that even if this is a terribly boring hallucination, he's glad he is having it. Though he'll never admit it aloud, he would have given anything in those last days of fear and pain to spend just a few more precious moments with those he'd lost, especially Spado and Master Kenway. He would've given his sight or hearing to speak with even Hickey (the dolt) again. 

 

Just thinking about those days (too recent, far too recent) makes his eyes prickle with heat. It isn't fair! After all he's done, after all he's been through, after every effort he has made, he's lost everything. Certainly, he's made mistakes, and many of them, but he's tried so hard to act for the greater good, and what has that gotten him? A frankly pathetic death and a dying dream to taunt him about all that had gone wrong, it seems.

 

Charles puts his head in his hands and breathes deeply. Damn it! Why can't this be real? It's strange and alien and it doesn't make any sense, but it seems peaceful and safe and Master Kenway is alive (and Charles hopes that means the others are all right as well).

 

There's the soft thud of a cup being set down in front of him, and a weight settles beside him on the couch. 

 

"It's camomile and cherry," Master Kenway says. His voice is soft, as it used to be when he spoke of his father and of Ziio. "You always say you like it."

 

Charles lifts his head and takes the mug. He takes a sip, gingerly. The tea is hot and it looks and tastes odd, but it's actually quite nice. He wonders, briefly, why it's called tea when it's obviously not the proper kind.

 

"Do you want to talk about it?" Master Kenway asks. 

 

"It?" Charles asks, after a moment. Master Kenway is lounging in a way Charles has never seen before. He's not on guard, though he is obviously anxious. Master Kenway takes a long draught of tea, looking at Charles expectantly.

 

"Why you're up and about at this ungodly hour," Master Kenway replies. "Is it work?"

 

Charles looks away.

 

"You wouldn't understand, sir," he says, after a long moment's thought. There's no point in dredging up all that pain and turmoil now. Best to simply wait for this dream to fade, enjoying it while he can, and let oblivion swallow him. 

 

"I can try."

 

"You really wouldn't understand, sir," Charles says, firmly. "I don't understand it myself."

 

"It's that bad, is it?"

 

Charles allows himself a small smile, but doesn't look back to meet Master Kenway's gaze. 

 

"Not bad, no," he says. "Just complicated."

 

Master Kenway makes an understanding noise, even though he can't possibly comprehend what Charles is talking about. 

 

"What's today's date, by the way?" Master Kenway enquires. 

 

"I… I'm not entirely sure," Charles admits. 

 

"The year?"

 

Charles looks up, to see Master Kenway looking at him quizzically, one eyebrow arched. That's a strange question.

 

"Don't you know that, sir?" he asks. 

 

"Yes, I do. I want to know if you know."

 

"Oh. Well…" Charles knows for a fact that it's 1782, but somehow he also knows that's not the answer Master Kenway is looking for. He doesn't have any other real options, however. "Seventeen eighty-two, isn't it?"

 

Master Kenway's expression turns grim, and he reaches forward, plucking the mostly-empty mug from Charles' hands. 

 

"Charles, I want you to go back to bed, and back to sleep. Keep the door open. I'll be along shortly. I just need to phone a few associates. Can you do that for me?"

 

Charles frowns. It's an strange request, but he's never been able to refuse Master Kenway. He nods, and Master Kenway gets up. Charles follows suit and pads quietly to the bedroom. Master Kenway stops at a table in the hall, and picks something up, pressing a few raised squares on it before putting it to his ear. He waits a few long seconds before speaking, and Charles can hear his voice clearly even when he's crawling underneath the stuffed sheets. 

 

"Hello, Lucy, it's Haytham. I know it's four-- no, nearly four-thirty-- in the morning, but I'm afraid it's rather urgent. Charles is ill again, and I need you to call me as soon as you hear this, and hopefully to come over as soon as possible. I don't think it's serious enough to get the hospital involved again, but I'm not a mental health expert. Thank you."

 

A heavy sigh follows, then another short pause. The red lights read 4.23 now, and Charles shuts his eyes. He's tired. Not just physically, but from the weight of everything that has happened. This dream was a nice rest, but that's all it is. Oblivion awaits him.

 

"Vidic, this is important. It's Kenway. Neither Lee nor myself will be in today. He's been taken ill again, the usual. I'll be back on Monday, after seeking professional help for him. He's in no state to do it himself. I don't know when Lee will be back, but rest assured I'll have his work delegated to the appropriate persons upon my return. I'll update you as and when I have more information."

 

The bed is warm and cosy. Charles barely registers when the lights shut off with a 'click'. The mattress dips slightly, and a strong arm slips over his waist and he doesn't really have the mind to understand anything more. This second death feels very much like falling asleep.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again, i'm not a historian or a mental health professional. i've also never been to nyc. if i get anything really really ridiculously wrong please tell me.

 

 

Charles opens his eyes and glares at the little box on the bedside table. The red numbers are flashing, reading 7:15, and it is making a horrible, insistent noise. Someone groans and shifts their weight and leans over him to quiet the box. It takes him one long moment (in which he swears his heart stops in panic) to remember that he is dead, and that he had thought he was hallucinating not four hours before. 

 

Being dead's not so bad, he decides. It feels a lot like being alive, really. 

 

A hand pushes at his shoulder, shaking him in a misguided attempt to rouse him.

 

"Get up, Charles," Master Kenway yawns, tiredly. "We have things to do."

 

"Yes, sir," Charles mumbles, sitting up and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Master Kenway rummages through the closet, and throws a number of garments onto the bed, before draping a few pieces of clothing over his own arm, and opening the bedroom door. 

 

"Meet me in the kitchen when you're dressed, all right?"

 

"Yes, sir," Charles replies, more out of reflex than anything else. Master Kenway half-closes the door behind him.

 

The clothes are strange: they are lighter than he's used to, but the quality is higher than he expects, the stitches more perfect and even than he thought possible. There is a long-sleeved shirt, made of a thin, stretchy fabric and a simple jacket, possibly of linen. There's also a pair of the trousers that farmers and working-class have been favouring lately, made from a heavy navy material. They aren't quite like any trousers Charles has seen before, though. One of the fastenings is a button, the other some sort of… hookless fastener, for lack of a better word. It makes a high-pitched 'zip' when he pulls the slider up. 

 

He feels under-dressed, but pads to the kitchen anyway. There isn't much else he can do. He doesn't recognise the streets, and he's missed Master Kenway a great deal in the past six months. Even if the Grand Master is not quite as he used to be, and the world itself turned upside-down, Charles would rather be at Master Kenway's side than not. He wonders if this is perhaps some kind of afterlife, if the God he doesn't believe in saw his good intentions and took mercy on his soul.

 

Charles does not stop to re-examine the pictures and strange objects from yesterday. He has a second chance at life, he can examine them later when Master Kenway is not waiting on him. He rubs at the ring on his finger anxiously. It's changed, suddenly a plain silver band rather than a Templar cross.

 

When Charles gets to the kitchen, Master Kenway is sipping at a mug, dressed in a collared shirt and some sort of buttonless, woollen waistcoat. His trousers are black, and his hair is still sticking up in odd places. Charles has to work hard to stop himself examining all the strange, shiny devices scattered about; one looks to be a kettle, another some kind of tiny glass-fronted oven. Master Kenway gestures to a box on the table, just large enough to fit a small hat inside. It's plain white. 

 

"I'd like you to take a look at that while I try to get ahold of Lucy again. You put that together about a decade or so ago. Apparently it's quite helpful."

 

Charles nods, and Haytham sets a second cup next to him. This time, it's real tea, black but sweetened with honey to perfection. Spado is happily eating dry biscuits in a small bowl near the living room door.

 

The box contains a number of journals, each one thick and bound with a soft, leather-like material. They are all carefully filled in with painstakingly neat writing, Charles' own. He doesn't remember writing these, but he doesn't remember anything about this… whatever this is.

 

_Hello, Charles. It's me, your past self. I am writing this to fill you in on a few details. When we're sick, we're very sick, and I know exactly how you're feeling. I want to help you. Please read these journals and think things over. It'll seem strange at first, but when the medication kicks in you'll be just fine._

 

Charles reads carefully. This is 'Long Island City', New York. He's never heard of such a place, but the journal explains that it's because the city has grown enormously over the past couple of hundred years. He is apparently some sort of accountant for a business named 'Abstergo', and Master Kenway is another employee, albeit in a different department.

 

He scans the pages. Apparently flushing privies are the norm now, a strange idea. 'Electricity' is a little like gas and steam, and powers most things. The strangely perfect pictures displayed around are called 'photographs', made with light and chemicals and other things. People use toothbrushes and gel now, instead of toothpicks, and they are more obsessed with cleanliness despite the fact they dirty the land more. Charles almost wants to laugh in disbelief at these strange facts, but… well. Surely anything is possible after death? 

 

The Charles who wrote the journals seems to have very intimate knowledge of the life of the Charles reading, and it makes Charles uncomfortable to wonder what's happened to the man who spent hours writing all of this down. Did they somehow switch places? Did the writer ever actually exist? Are they the same person, and Charles' life an illusion?

 

Charles shudders, and moves on.

 

There are photographs littering the box. One is of Thomas Hickey. He flips it over: _Thomas is a(n annoying) friend. He's a recovering alcoholic. Don't ask. He's still alive._ William Johnson, John Pitcairn, Benjamin Church… they all have pictures, too, with equally short descriptions scribbled on the back, all ending with some variation of 'alive'. Master Kenway has been resurrected here, why shouldn't they be, too? 

 

Charles can hardly contain his joy. He's missed them terribly in the last few years. As much as he hates to admit it, he's spent many a dark night mourning the men he believed he'd never see again. He does not look at the Assassin's picture; that he is even included here makes Charles suspect this is some kind of hell. 

 

"Sir?" Charles asks, hesitantly, when Master Kenway enters the room again, before he can speak first.

 

"Yes?" Master Kenway replies, attentively. "Do you need something?"

 

"I was wondering if perhaps we might visit--"

 

"William and the others? Not until tomorrow at the earliest, I'm afraid. I'll call them later, arrange to have a lad's night in over the weekend if you're still feeling up for it," Master Kenway gives Charles a comforting squeeze of the shoulder. "Lucy'll be over in about an hour, she had some errand to run this morning and Desmond didn't check the answering machine. Stupid boy."

 

Master Kenway studies the open box carefully, seeing what has already been read through and what hasn't. 

 

"How did you know who I wanted to visit, sir?" Charles does not look up, instead flipping the next page of the journal.  

"Since your second major bout of sickness, you've always needed to check up on certain individuals," Master Kenway replies, his voice soft. Almost like a parent talking to their beloved child, or a-- a lov--

 

 _A lover,_ his mind supplies, and Charles blushes at the thought. But it fits. A shared bed, a shared home. Master Kenway is even wearing a ring that matches Charles' own. 

 

"Sickness? I feel fine, sir. Absolutely fine."

 

Master Kenway sighs, sounding sorrowful somehow. He removes his hand, and goes to the sink, picking up a few of the plates stacked to dry there. He starts to put them away.

 

"It isn't that sort of sickness, I'm afraid. Lucy will explain when she gets here, she's always very good at that sort of thing. Don't worry too much, it's probably just that Dr Mualim's new prescription isn't working as well as it ought to. You'll be right as rain in no time."

 

Charles can't help but feel uneasy. Right as rain? As much as he likes the look of this life, he still wants to be himself. 

 

Master Kenway hesitates a moment, unsure of what to do (Charles has never ever seen him look lost, never ever). He starts pulling ingredients out of various cupboards, hands trembling slightly. 

 

"I'll make us some breakfast," he announces. "Charles, go and clean your teeth, please. Yours is the blue brush. Then you can make a start on the black journal, and I could try to explain some things before Lucy arrives."

 

Charles isn't sure he likes Master Kenway being so… not in control. 

 

"Charles?"

 

"Right away, sir," Charles replies, getting up and carefully looking everywhere but at Master Kenway's troubled expression.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a religion and theology student with a background in philosophy, so… I hope you're ready for a lot of introspective babble. 
> 
> I vaguely remember reading a post on tumblr by a Kanien'kehá:ka woman that mentioned that pow wows aren't a Kanien'kehá:ka thing, and that their closest equivalent are called 'storm dances'. If anything I write about Kanien'kehá:ka culture is completely wrong, please, please tell me so I can correct, I have no wish to misrepresent anybody's culture or traditions.

 

The toothpaste makes Charles' mouth tingle, and the water comes out of one of the taps _hot_. The mirror on the cupboard hanging above the sink is too perfect, too smooth, and the face reflected in it is ever-so-slightly different than he's used to. His hair is shorter, for one, and the skin completely unscarred. Charles checks his arms and torso quickly; there's no sign of any of the many injuries he's received over the past few decades. 

 

This really is a new life. It must be, mustn't it? Whatever this is seems to fit quite well with what Charles remembers the military chaplains explaining a Catholic belief about Heaven. 

 

 _"Won't have none of the scars from your living life,"_ Charles can't remember the man's name, but he'd been a Yorkshireman, the honest sort from a family well-to-do enough to invest in education and poor enough to know suffering. _"Your loved ones'll be there, too. Everything you ever wanted, every regret you ever 'ad vanished… the Lord is a kind and merciful God."_

 

Charles reaches out and brushes his fingers along the mirror edge. He's always been under the impression it was necessary to be religious in order to reap the benefits supposedly gained after death, but he's certainly glad that he was wrong in that respect. Living in a world where his friends are alive and well, and that secret fantasy he's always had of Master Kenway is real? This is going to be fantastic.

 

…Although, speaking of Master Kenway, it's obvious that Charles' confusion over what is happening has rather unsettled the man; to upset him is the last thing Charles ever wishes to do, especially given the sombre note of the last time they'd both seen each other alive. He'll need to settle into this… whatever this is as fast as he possibly can. Learn everything he can, using the mental illness Master Kenway believes him to be afflicted with as an excuse for his shortcomings. Surely it can't be that different from what he's used to?

 

Mind made up, he pads back to the kitchen, where Spado is nudging Master Kenway's leg and yapping, begging for some of the sausage and bacon he's frying. Charles goes straight to the box and pulls out the black journal, as Master Kenway had previously asked. This one has things apparently pasted to the pages, mostly photographs, it seems.

 

_You were born in Warrington, Cheshire, 1963. You were schooled in Switzerland and Britain, eventually graduating from Durham with a degree in mathematics. You started work at the London branch of Abstergo Industries, at the behest of your father, eventually transferring to the Boston branch. You met Ké there at twenty, then Haytham at twenty-two._

 

Charles doesn't know a 'Ké', but considering that he's woken up in a completely different century, he supposes he oughtn't be too surprised at the things that are different than he remembers.

 

_I'm sorry. It's going to be difficult, reliving and remembering everything again. It always is._

 

_You've always had mental health problems. Mania, borderline obsessive-compulsive behaviour, depression. Nothing that a little medication and some therapy couldn't control. It wasn't until Ké died that things got worse._

 

_I don't remember most of it, not even when I'm as well as I can get. It's mostly a blur until about halfway through the first hospitalisation. Unfortunately, that's also about three months after the worst of the breakdown. Most people have been supportive and forgiven you for the things you said and did during that time. In case you were wondering, that's the main reason Connor hates you so much. (I've been told that it was during a storm dance event and rather public, so I suppose it's just as well I can't remember.)_

 

Charles sighs. The assassin hates him here, too? That's a shame. Perhaps, given enough time and effort, he can fix that. (And perhaps he can avoid being stabbed in the heart again, a particularly cruel corner of his brain adds.) He hopes, fervently, that there isn't a Templar Order or an Assassin Brotherhood in this life. He can't lose everybody he ever cared about again, not over some ideal that could never come to fruition. 

 

Master Kenway puts a plate holding a rather badly-cooked English breakfast in front of him, and taps him on the shoulder, jerking Charles from his musings.

 

"How are you doing?" he asks, placing a knife and fork by Charles' hand.

 

"All right, I suppose," Charles murmurs. "Who's Ké?"

 

Master Kenway sits opposite him, and stares at his own half-burnt food, avoiding meeting Charles' eyes.

 

"You were engaged," he says, quietly. "There was an accident. She died."

 

"Oh," Charles said, just as quietly. 

 

Could this Ké somehow be related to that Mohawk woman he'd married all those years ago? In the life he remembers, it had been a political thing. She had been nice enough, but there hadn't been any love, not really. He vaguely remembers hearing that she'd borne his children. Twins, if he remembered correctly.

 

"She was pregnant," Master Kenway says. "With twin boys. Six months along."

 

Charles really doesn't know what to say. The woman he'd known hadn't deserved to die when her life was just beginning, hadn't deserved to die without meeting her children.

 

"I don't remember," he stammers, suddenly not feeling hungry at all. He prods an egg with his fork, concentrating on his plate, as opposed to Master Kenway's disappointed expression.

 

"You never do," Master Kenway replies. "You had a nervous breakdown soon after that."

 

"Does this happen often? My forgetting, that is?"

 

Master Kenway sighs. 

 

"This is the fifth time in a little over twenty years. I suppose it depends on how you define 'often'. You seem more lucid this time, so hopefully I won't have to take you to the hospital again."

 

Charles shudders at the thought. He's never set foot in a… well, one would be hard-pressed to call them 'mental hospitals', that implies some sort of curing process, and those places do anything but. He has heard of the conditions patients are kept in and the 'treatments' they are forced to endure. Poor King George.

 

"I'd much rather stay here and try to recover, if it's all the same to you," he says. 

 

"We'll see what Lucy thinks," Master Kenway says, and he sounds less sombre. Charles glances up- he certainly looks less anxious. Charles looks back at his plate, and tries, unsuccessfully, to cut a sausage. 

 

Master Kenway takes a long sip of tea and coughs discreetly.

 

"I ought to apologise for how inedible this is. I don't usually cook."

 

Charles can tell. The Master Kenway he knew was proficient in the kitchen, a necessity for a batchelor who travelled as often as the Grand Master had. Assuming that this Master Kenway had a similar upper-class upbringing to the Charles Lee of this world, it's possible he never needed to learn. 

 

"You're supposed to say 'I can tell'," Master Kenway murmurs, pushing a piece of tomato around his plate. 

 

"I thought it would be better to appreciate the hard work you put into it, s--" Charles barely manages to stop himself from finishing the sentence with 'sir'.

 

"I'd rather you saved niceness for when you're better," Master Kenway replies, and he sounds… a little bitter, almost petulant. His displeasure shows clearly on his face. Very unlike the man Charles had served for almost thirty years.

 

"I"ll bear that in mind," Charles says, hesitantly. He doesn't know how to please this Master Kenway, and that realisation worries him more than anything else he's experienced so far today. There's a knock at the door, and Master Kenway goes to answer, expression still sour.

 

"Lucy! You don't know how glad I am to see you. Please, come in."

 

"I'm glad to see you, too, Haytham. Where is he?" a woman asks. Charles assumes she is Lucy. She's American, and sounds polite, professional.

 

"In the kitchen. I warn you, I don't think he knows who you are," Master Kenway replies. "Oh. You brought Desmond."

 

"Nice to see you too, man," a male voice, one Charles doesn't recognise at all, replies. Charles pushes his plate away and picks up the black journal again, mostly pretending to read through it. 

 

"I suppose you'd like to speak with Charles alone?" Master Kenway asks. "Ah. I'll be in the bedroom if you need me. Desmond, if you could refrain from making a mess, I'd be eternally grateful."

 

Desmond tuts loudly and there are heavy footsteps walking away from the kitchen. The scrape of ladies' heels alerts Charles to Lucy's presence in the doorway. He glances up, and the woman standing there is observing him carefully. She is blonde, hair pulled up into a bun. Her clothes are simple: a white blouse and a narrow black skirt that quite scandalously shows her calves. Charles shuts the journal, and ignores her bared legs in favour of looking at her face. It would not do to make a bad first impression- well, technically it isn't their first meeting to her, but for Charles it is.

 

"Hello," he says. 

 

"Hello," she replies. "Do you recognise me?"

 

Charles shakes his head.

 

"I'm afraid not."

 

"Do you know what the date is?"

 

"Not the second of October, 1782," Charles replies. Lucy raises an eyebrow. 

 

"You aren't wrong," she notes. "And you're handling this rather well."

 

"Thank you," Charles says. That was a compliment, wasn't it?

 

"No problem," Lucy replies. "Tell me, what's the last thing that happened to you before you woke up this morning? The last thing you remember before four thirty."

 

Charles doesn't want to think about the cold steel sliding through his heart, the pain in the Assassin's eyes, the faintness he'd always come to associate with falling asleep.

 

"I don't want to talk about it," he says. Lucy's brow furrows. Charles realises his fingers are subconsciously questing at the place the Assassin's blade had been, and pulls them away as though they are burnt.

 

"Were you hurt?" she asks. Her voice is soft. He nods.

 

"I don't want to talk about it," he repeats.

 

Lucy walks closer, sits in the same chair Master Kenway used. 

 

"I need you to tell me everything if I'm going to help you," she says. "It doesn't matter how ridiculous or horrible you might think it is, but I need to know."

 

"He stabbed me right in the heart," Charles said, reluctantly. 

 

"He?" Lucy looked deep in thought. "Haytham? Or the Assassin?"

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that Edward is going to be a very Dark and Serious character (the kind of darkness and seriousness that needs that capital letter at the beginning), but I like the fanon personality of a fun-loving drunkard with a very inappropriate sense of humour too much to not use it in something. Anyway, he isn't going to show up very much (if at all), so… consider this advance warning for future chapters, I guess.
> 
> I haven't played Liberations, but Aveline's character seems pretty awesome and apparently Ubisoft were planning on making her Connor's love interest at one point during the development of III. She'll be making several appearances, though I can't promise she'll be particularly well-written.

 

"How do you know about the Assassin?" Charles demands. 

 

"It's a common theme," Lucy answers. "In 2004, you thought that your friend William had been murdered by Connor. You believed John and Benjamin were assassinated by him in 2006. You thought Thomas had been murdered in 2008. And now, in 2013, you believe yourself to be dead." 

 

She pauses a moment. 

 

"Is that right? Were you killed?"

 

Charles nods. She already thinks him insane. Best to try to convince her that he's on the way to recovery. 

 

"I can't be, I know," he murmurs. "I'm alive. My friends are alive. Everything's fine. That is the last thing I remember, but it can't have happened."

 

"What is Haytham to you?" Lucy asks, and Charles bristles at the sudden change of subject. He was on a roll, damn it. He rubs his eyes, and sighs.

 

"I'm not sure. I thought he was my superior, a man I'd follow into hell itself. Somebody I respected and adored and worshipped."

 

Lucy looks thoughtful. 

 

"All right," she says. "One last question. If the Assassin were here, right now, what would you do?"

 

Charles isn't quite sure how to answer that. After everything that had happened, was there anything to do?

 

"Nothing," he says, eventually. "He killed my dearest friends. He killed Master Kenway. He killed me. There's nothing left to say or do at this point. I suppose I'd just… sit and think."

 

Lucy pulls a small notebook out of a pocket, and starts scribbling frantically.

 

"Have you taken any medication today?"

 

"No," Charles replies. "Should I?"

 

"I can't say for sure until I've seen your medication," she says. "Thank you for your time. I'm going to speak with Haytham and look at your prescriptions, and then I'm going to get you an appointment with Dr Mualim for tomorrow." 

 

"Appointment?"

 

"It isn't anything to worry about. I'm not qualified to make any major changes to your treatment, but Dr Mualim is," Lucy says, simply.

 

"So it is the medication?" Charles asks. At her quizzical glance, he explains. "Mast-- Haytham said he thought that's what it was."

 

"I can't say for sure," Lucy says, seriously (though not unkindly). "But I think that changing your medication again would be a good first step. If you'll excuse me."

 

Lucy stands, gives him a polite nod, and clacks away. This time, when Charles hears Master Kenway's voice it's too far away to decipher the exact words.

 

Charles looks through more of the photographs in the box. Achilles Davenport is alive, though suffering dementia and illness brought on by age. Master Kenway's father is alive, and apparently something of a mischief-making trickster. There's a picture of that Mohawk woman, Ziio. _Deceased. Haytham loved her very much, though they divorced after only a year of marriage. Mother of Connor._ Master Birch has a photograph, the man is an ex-MP in prison in London, for various kinds of fraud. The Assass-- no, Connor's photograph has only two words on it: _it's complicated_.

 

Lucy's heels click their way to the kitchen once more, and she pokes her head around the doorway.

 

"Desmond and I are leaving. I'm going to call Haytham a little later, once I've arranged your appointment. For now, just stay calm and keep reading your journals. You should keep taking your medicine as normal- Haytham knows what you're supposed to have. I'll come by again on Monday."

 

"All right. Thank you," Charles says. "Goodbye."

 

Lucy gives him a polite smile, and leaves. Master Kenway returns shortly, clutching a handful of pill bottles. He looks… disgruntled. Weary.

 

"Are you all right?" Charles asks. 

 

"Fine," Master Kenway says. "I'm just tired."

 

"Perhaps you ought to go back to bed?" Charles bit his lip. Master Kenway does not suit weariness. It makes it far too clear that he's steadily nearing his sixties.

 

"I'm not that sort of tired," Master Kenway places the bottles on the table and fetches a glass of water. He starts counting out the pills- one large blue oval, two small white capsules, a minuscule red sphere and a round yellow pill. "The blue and yellow are antidepressants. The two white ones and the red are antipsychotics."

 

"I'm sorry," Charles says, taking the pills and dutifully swallowing them though he doesn't particularly want to. The water hardly helps, the blue one in particular tries to stick in his throat.

 

"For what?" 

 

"For getting sick again. For getting sick at all, actually."

 

"You can't help it," Master Kenway says, quietly. The smile he gives Charles is wan and unconvincing. "It's not so bad this time."

 

The silence stretches for far too long before Charles has the courage to break it.

 

"Did we have plans this weekend?"

 

He hopes they did. He wants to explore this new New York, find his feet, settle in before he causes Master Kenway any more distress.

 

"I'm not sure…" Master Kenway mutters, pulling a slim rectangle from his pocket. The same he'd seen before. Master Kenway pokes and prods at the side facing him, and winces. "Oh, _shit_."

 

"We did have plans?" Charles presses.

 

"Dinner with Connor and his girlfriend tomorrow. She wants us to reconcile before the wedding."

 

"We can still do that," Charles offers. Master Kenway shakes his head, grimacing.

 

"No, we can't. We'll reschedule for a few weeks ahead."

 

"I might not know what year it is, but I'm perfectly capable of behaving myself in public," Charles says, the acidity in his voice surprising him.

 

"We're rescheduling, Charles," Master Kenway snaps. "That's the end of it."

 

"Perhaps they could come over here?" Charles tries again.

 

"Perhaps, but not this weekend. You are ill and in case you hadn't noticed by now, things don't tend to go very well when Connor and your illness are put together." Master Kenway sounds like a schoolmaster, his condescending tone rubbing Charles entirely the wrong way.

 

"I hadn't noticed, actually, _sir_ ," Charles snaps. 

 

Master Kenway looks for a moment as though he's about to start shouting in the way that makes Charles quake in his boots, but he glances away, gritting his teeth and forcing himself to take several deep breaths.

 

"We ought to stop," he says, after a long, terse moment. "It doesn't do either of us any good when we argue like this. Especially not in these circumstances."

 

Charles hesitates a moment. He hates apologising, even if it is to Master Kenway.

 

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't've been so pushy. I just want to get better. I hate being sick."

 

"That's understandable," Master Kenway mutters. He stands, gesturing for Charles to do the same, and embraces him when he does.

 

Charles tentatively wraps his arms around his mentor, and though the atmosphere is still uncomfortable, he relishes the heat and the shape beneath the layers of clothing, and the warm face pressed into the nook of Charles' neck. Master Kenway smells clean, like soap and cologne. He takes a long, shuddering breath before releasing his hold on Charles, and gives a smile that seems just a little forced. He keeps one hand on Charles' shoulder, the other resting on the lower part of Charles' jaw, and looks him straight in the eyes.

 

"We're all right?"

 

Charles smiles in return, gripping Master Kenway's shoulder.

 

"Of course."

 

"Excellent," Master Kenway says, looking relieved. "There ought to be a journal that explains how to use technology. If you take a look through that, I'll call Aveline. Afterwards, I'll arrange something with the lads. How does that sound?"

 

"Fantastic," Charles manages. He hopes that the men he'd once called 'comrades' are not quite as different as Master Kenway is. He leans forward, hoping to catch Master Kenway's mouth in a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need to spell and typo check this stuff more thoroughly.


End file.
